Within a Dream
by DamaDeHonor
Summary: Dean is dreaming about being a little kid. Odd thing, though, as if being a kid wasn't strange enough. He keeps waking up in the middle of a forest. And the stranger he meets there thinks maybe there's a reason he keeps showing up. [an AU fic]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Thank you for reading, and reviews _are_ appreciated!**  
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**Rating:** PG-13ish for not-quite cussing and somewhat mature subject matter. A little violence and blood, but not in this chapter. However, no sexual content or implications of any kind.

**Spoilers:** All of Season 1, definitely. "In My Time of Dying" definitely for Season 2. Other than that, I don't think it should be _too_ confusing if you missed any episodes.

**Disclaimer:** Supernatural does not belong to me, and I'm not getting paid for this. Darn. :D

- - -**  
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**"Within a Dream"**

**Chapter One**

_"All that we see or seem_

_Is but a dream within a dream."_

--Edgar Allan Poe

Dean was dreaming. Or, at least he _thought_ he was dreaming because last time he checked, he wasn't a seven-year-old rugrat.

He was standing in the middle of some deep woods, and by his height in comparison to all the freakin' trees--there were a lot of 'em--he was only about three or four feet high, give or take a few feet.

It took him a moment to realize he was dreaming because it all felt so real, down to the stupid bugs humming away in his ears. And then he figured if it was a dream and he was a kid, it stood to reason that maybe his father was still alive, and that little Sammy and him were around somewhere.

"Dad! Sammy!" he called out, turning in circles, looking for any sign of them. He was alone.

"Dad!" he called again, noticing how high-pitched and annoying his kid-voice sounded, then chose a direction and started walking. "Sam!"

No one answered, and Dean was getting this strange, detached feeling. A moment later, he could hardly see--everything was getting blurry, and his eyes wouldn't open. And then he realized it was because he was waking up.

He tried to cling to the dream by calling out again, "Dad! Sammy!" but it was too late.

Growling into the pillow underneath his face, Dean slowly drug himself into a sitting position and wiped the drool from the corner of his lip. "Sleep well?" Sam wondered dryly from the corner of the motel room.

Dean shot daggers at him with his too-sensitive eyes--Where was that darned light comin' from? Oh, yeah. The window.--and grumbled, "What are _you_ doin' up so early?"

Sam gave him a look, a short, incredulous glance, before returning his attention to his laptop. "It's twelve in the afternoon," was all he volunteered, and Dean groaned again and got out of the motel bed.

"I'm takin' a shower," he said, as he passed Sam on the way to the bathroom.

- - -

For the rest of the day, he felt groggy and cranky, and kept sniping at Sam for no reason. They were running down leads on a new job, and Sam had volunteered to go in by himself to do the questioning. He probably thought Dean was going to bite off the witness' head, or something.

Dean didn't really blame him.

Sam came out to the Impala a little while later and got in. "So?" Dean asked, and Sam shrugged.

"Macey heard noises while living there, saw things moving, strange shadows out of the corners of her eyes, smelled sulfur. But I'm not sure what we're dealing with here, a demon or an angry spirit."

"Sulfur sounds like a demon," Dean pointed out. They were investigating an abandoned, haunted house. It was abandoned 'cause no one wanted to live in it.

"We should bring everything just in case, holy water, the works," Sam suggested. Dean nodded, started up the car and pulled away from the curb.

"Dean," Sam said into the growing silence of the car. "Did you have a nightmare this morning?"

"What?" Dean asked, glancing at Sam quickly. He thought maybe he'd sounded a little bit too defensive, but whatever. Sam knew he hated talking about feelings and other girly crap like that.

"Did you have a nightmare, or not," Sam returned, not backing down.

"No," he answered, biting it out like a curse.

"Then why did you wake up calling for Dad and me?" Sam wondered, and Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened spasmodically.

"Just drop it, Sam," he growled a moment later, when he realized he didn't want to answer his brother's question, and he couldn't think of a way to distract Sam from badgering him any more.

"Fine," Sam answered, then added, stubbornly, "I'll drop it. For now."

- - -

They'd spent the rest of the day doing research and getting weapons and defenses together for whatever they were about to face. He'd wanted to go to the house that night, but Sam practically begged him to wait to see if they could find more on what they would be dealing with.

He'd finally given in and gone to bed after watching mindless night-time television for awhile. He didn't know when he started dreaming, but it only felt like a moment after he'd drifted off to sleep.

He was in the same woods again, a kid again. He looked down at himself, seeing that he wasn't wearing the clothes that he'd worn that day or the ones that he might have been wearing had he been back in the eighties. It was a hoody, some jeans, a t-shirt underneath the hoody, and tennishoes on his feet, not boots.

He sighed. Trust his subconscious to not be sensible about anything. Why couldn't he have dreamed about a hot chick, instead? He started walking again, in a different direction than he'd taken the last time. At least, he _thought_ it was different. He called out for John again, and wondered if Sam was going to be a little kid again, too, when he finally found them.

"Dad! Sammy!"

He was farther into the woods then he'd gotten before, and he was starting to hope that maybe his logic was right. Maybe Dad would be out here somewhere, with Sam. And then, if he kept having dreams like this, he could always have his dad when he went to sleep, at least.

It was a little sick, that kind of logic, but this was just a dream, right? So he didn't care.

"Dad! Sammy!" he called again, and then froze, noticing movement coming from his left. A man approached, and Dean turned toward him, heart pounding.

He was a tall guy, maybe about Dean's usual height, dark hair and eyes, but built more like Sam, and wearing a dark button-up shirt, a flannel jacket, jeans, and some hiking boots. His cheeks were grizzled, like he hadn't shaved in a day or so, and his eyes widened when he spotted Dean. "Are you lost?" he questioned, and Dean frowned.

If this was a dream, then why did the guy care? "No," he replied, "Have you seen my dad and little brother?" He might as well try just asking, since it _was_ his dream.

"No, were you camping out here?" the stranger asked. Dean shook his head, wishing his subconscious wasn't a jerk. "What's your name?"

Dean hesitated. His first instinct was to keep his name to himself and either give a false one, no last name, or a false last name, but this was just a dream. So he forced himself to relax and answered truthfully for once, "Dean Winchester. My dad is John Winchester, and my brother is Sam."

The man shook his head. "Why don't you come back with me to the cabin, and I'll call the police. They can look for your brother and father. I don't think you should be wandering out here by yourself."

Dean scowled at him. "I can find them on my own." He started off, and the man called, desperately, "Wait!" And started to reach for him. Dean shot off running.

No way was he going to let some strange guy get hold of him. "Dad!" he called, as he ran, hearing branches crunching behind him as the stranger drew closer. "Dad!"

And then it started to happen again--the blurring at the edges of his vision, and the heavy-lids thing. "Dad!" And he shot up in bed, panting, his knife strangely clutched in his right hand.

"Dean?" Sam questioned from his position on the other bed. He was there, with his laptop on his legs, back against the headboard. It looked like he'd already showered and gotten dressed, except that he was in his socks.

"I'm fine," Dean snapped, and stuffed his knife back under his pillow. "You find anything?" He cleared his throat and rubbed away his eye-boogers.

"Nah," Sam answered, then set aside his laptop, shutting the cover, and maneuvering so that he was sitting across from Dean. "You obviously had a nightmare," he stated, giving Dean that no-nonsense look he hated so much. Because _he_ was the big brother, darn it, not Sammy. "Tell me about it." Was that an _order_?

"No, get a life, Sam," he growled, and stood up. "I have to take a leak." He started for the bathroom, but soon found himself whipped around by the arm. Sam's humongous hand was responsible, and he was staring down at Dean, using his height-advantage to loom and overall just look pretty darned intimidating.

Dean didn't appreciate that much. Not at-- He glanced at the clock. Not at eight in the morning, and not from Sammy, his little brother, and not right after having a dream that he was a little kid, being chased by a giant hiker.

"_Don't_ grab me, Sam," he said, wondering how he'd ever learned to make his voice so hard and cold. It was so far from the way it'd sounded in his dream.

Sam looked guilty, but he still retorted, "I heard you call for Dad again. Is this about him? About the deal he made?"

Dean gritted his teeth, looked away, met Sam's concerned, annoyed gaze steadily. "No, Sam. It's not. Will you just let it go?"

Sam shook his head. "We're gonna talk about this, Dean. Eventually." It was a promise.

"Whatever," Dean grumbled, and headed for the bathroom. But he knew Sam was right, and he wasn't looking forward to whatever psychobabbly, mumbo-jumbo he came up with to explain why Dean was dreaming of being a kid again. He just really freakin' wasn't.

- - -


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings:** A little violence in this chapter, I think, but not much. PG-13 at most.

**- - -**

**Chapter Two**

By afternoon, Dean got tired of waiting, and they headed for the old, abandoned and possibly haunted house. They brought everything, EMF meters, holy water, the _Ritual Romano_, the shotguns with the rocksalt in them, and the consecrated iron rounds, everything but the kitchen sink, 'cause what type of good would that do, huh?

And it ended up being a poltergeist.

It went after Sam first, knocking him into the nearest wall, and then it went after Dean. He didn't even see it coming--go figure. He just woke up a minute or two later, lying in a heap on the broken, dining room table. His head hurt.

"Sam!" he called out, and Sam groaned and sat up from his slumped position against the wall. That was when a lamp came flying at his head. "Watch out!"

Dean dove for Sam, trying to protect him from all the objects that were suddenly hurtling towards him. Something hit him in the back as he tried to shield Sam, and he felt something crack. Possibly a rib, possibly whatever it was that had hit his ribs. He grunted and set the pain aside.

He was gonna have a lot more bruises by the time they got out of there. Ignoring their shotguns--they'd have to come back for them later--he helped Sam to his feet, then headed for the door, all the while trying to keep the debris from hitting his disoriented brother in the face. He had his arm up, shielding him, and his body turned sort of sideways, almost crab-walking out of the place. Well, more like "crab-running," in this case.

A chair leg hit his arm before they completely cleared the dining room, and Dean barely kept his arm up. Something had definitely broken that time around, and he wasn't so sure it was the chair leg.

The hallway was pretty safe, and Sam was moving a bit quicker now, so they made it to the front door without incident. Although the furniture started to shake in the living room as they went past, but they were out the door before it could start flinging itself at them.

"I hate poltergeists," Dean stated, as they limped toward the Impala.

- - -

Sam insisted that he take something for the pain. If he'd told him that his arm was probably broken, Sam would have insisted on the hospital. But he'd pretended he was okay besides being busted up a little. Sam had his own share of bruises, and possibly a slight concussion, so he didn't question that.

"I don't want anything," he groused, and Sam gave him a fed-up glare.

After a moment, he added, "You'd get to sleep faster, and I'm thinking you probably need some of that."

He was right. It would be a pain, no pun intended, trying to get to sleep feeling like he'd gotten run over a few times by a really big truck. "Okay, I'll take something."

Sam gave him a couple of ibuprofen. He drank the two, sick-looking, little red pills down, and then curled up on the bed and forced his eyes closed...

He was back in those stupid, tree-infested woods again. And this time he felt like crap. 'Oh, great,' he thought, 'My subconscious is a witch.' Because it looked like it had decided to let him keep all his injuries. Oh, and _without_ the freaking painkillers.

This time, when he called out for his dad, his voice broke into a whimper. God, he sounded pathetic. He steeled himself against the coming pain and started to walk. Tears leaked out of his eyes like little, emo traitors. "Dad... Sam..." He couldn't seem to make his voice carry far enough.

He kept walking, though, somehow, even though it felt like someone had stuck a knife through his right lung and left it there. He may have underestimated how bad that rib had been damaged.

The sight of a cabin renewed his hope. Maybe his father and Sam were in there. "Dad!" he called, this time his voice stronger with the burst of adrenaline. He ran forward, holding his injured arm to his chest. "Dad..." He could barely breathe by the time he reached the front porch.

The door came open, and Dean balked. It was that man again. Dean started to turn and run, but the man called out, "Wait, Dean!" Something in his tone made him turn back. "Dean," the man called again and came off of his porch and drew closer. "The other day, you just disappeared. I... I won't call the police, okay? But maybe I can still help you."

Dean frowned at him. If this was really his own dream, and he let this guy help him, he could maybe find his father. "Do you know where my dad is?" he asked, his voice catching in places. He wasn't breathing well, and he was trying to keep at bay the flood of tears, at the same time.

"No," the stranger said, "My name is Jake O'Conner. This is where I live, and I haven't seen anyone around here for awhile. I go to town for supplies. You were the first person I've seen out here in maybe months."

Dean swallowed. Could this dude really help him? He started to turn away, thinking he was still better off on his own. "Dean, don't go," Jake called to him, sharply. "You're hurt, let me at least see what I can do about your injuries."

Dean's bottom lip trembled as he turned back to gaze at the man, worriedly. He didn't know this guy, dream or not. Could he trust him? Or was that asking if he could trust himself? Freud would probably have something weird to say about that one.

He stepped closer. O'Conner sighed and crouched in front of him, reaching out. He flinched, ready to run again, but O'Conner reassured him, "I'm just taking a look at that arm. Okay?" He nodded, and O'Conner touched the arm tentatively, then gently pulled it away from Dean's chest.

He yelped then whimpered at the pain that shot up his forearm to his shoulder, and O'Conner winced in sympathy and requested. "I don't want to roll up your sleeve. Could you go ahead and take off the jacket?"

Dean eyed him suspiciously, thinking, _'Perv,'_ but he did as he was told. He managed to somehow wriggle the thing off one-handed, in order to not jar his arm again, but then swallowed at the sight of several other bruises on his arms, wondering suddenly how he'd gotten them all. No wonder he felt like he'd been in a car accident and then in a brawl directly after. O'Conner paled and took Dean's hoody from him, draping it across his lap.

He took Dean's arm again and felt along the bone with his fingers. Dean cried, and used his free hand to swipe away the tears, meanwhile biting his lip so he wouldn't cry out. "It's broken," O'Conner said quietly. "You probably need a doctor."

"No," Dean refused, his voice coming out childish and wavering.

"It might need to be set," O'Conner said, "And I can't do it."

"I said 'no'!" Dean yelled, doing his best grown-up glare. O'Conner looked startled, but finally nodded.

"Okay," he relented. "Come inside? I can give you something for the pain." He got to his feet, holding Dean's hoody in his right hand. Dean gazed up at him, bottom lip quivering, wanting so bad to just find his dad so that John could make it all better. But it was starting to become clear that Dad wasn't in these woods... maybe he wasn't anywhere on earth, anymore. Not even in Dean's dreams.

"Okay," he said, and followed the man inside his cabin.


	3. Chapter 3

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**Warnings:** My, my, my. You would think the rated **T** would be enough? But, no, I have to have a rating for each chapter because I'm ana--, ahem, meticulous. This chapter... I dub thee--PG!

- - -

**Chapter Three**

It was weird to actually be _inside_ the cabin now. He'd half expected to wake up, but instead, Dean found himself in the middle of a homey living room. Rustic, but homey.

O'Conner went ahead of him, draping the dark-green hoody over the back of the couch that faced away from the door. A fireplace was directly in front of it, and a throw rug between it and the couch. No coffee table, but then, O'Conner didn't seem like the type to have enough family to need one.

While O'Conner was off in some other room, sharpening his knives in preparation of killing Dean, or whatever, Dean crossed over to the couch and crawled on. He lay on his good side and held his arm to his chest. "Dad," he whispered, hoping that maybe he could conjure up his father just by calling to him. He even fixed John's image in his mind, thinking that it might help.

He felt someone move in front of him, and asked, hopefully, "Dad?" and opened his eyes. It was just O'Conner.

He held out a white pill toward Dean, probably aspirin, and a glass of water in his other hand. "Take this," he requested, and Dean sat up with a whimper and took the pill from him. He put it in his mouth then took the glass and gulped it down. Aagh. He'd forgotten how hard it was to get a pill down when you were only seven.

"That wasn't child's aspirin," he muttered, glaring at O'Conner as he handed back the glass.

The man looked startled. "I don't have any, and you probably need something with more kick anyway."

Dean lay back down. A thought occurred to him. "Will you look for my dad?"

"John Winchester?" O'Conner wondered. Dean nodded, tears filling his eyes again. He was starting to hate being a little kid. Stupid subconscious. "I did... after you disappeared. I went to talk to the police--I didn't tell them about seeing you, just that I was wondering about a man named 'John Winchester.' Told them I found something that belonged to him. They looked it up. If it's the right man, I think your father's been missing for a few months, Dean."

_No_. Why was his stupid dream so accurate? "Did you look for me and Sam too?"

O'Conner shifted his weight, then sat down beside Dean on the couch. "This man has two sons, 'Dean and Sam Winchester.' But they're grown men, wanted actually. By the FBI."

Dean groaned. "I thought I was dreaming. Why is this so real?"

O'Conner frowned, reached out, hesitated, then touched Dean's hair, smoothing it back. "That's you, isn't it?"

Dean wondered why he didn't pull his head away. "Yeah, me and Sammy. The legacy of one John Winchester, demon fighter, ex-marine, soul-seller..." He trailed off, wanting to scream in frustration and anger, but knowing he wouldn't.

"I think you're a ghost," O'Conner said, still stroking Dean's hair, thoughtfully. Dean snorted. "The way you disappeared the other day. The fact that you're just a boy, when the man I was told about is supposed to be in his late twenties."

Dean swallowed. "That doesn't make sense. For one, I didn't die. For another, if I did, I would still be the same age. I'm just asleep, in a motel room somewhere. Sam's probably at his laptop, looking up some ways to make poltergeist pouches, or calling Missouri to see what she used last time. And then I'm gonna wake up, and he's gonna be all concerned and dewey-eyed. I wanna freakin' slap him when he does that. But I hurt so much, I won't even be able to cuss at him, and he'll probably take me to the hospital. And they'll drug me up, and I won't even be able to mew like a weak kitten."

O'Conner chuckled. "It sounds like he cares about you a lot."

Dean grumbled, "He needs to take care of _himself_."

"You worry about him," the man murmured, still absently smoothing Dean's hair. The motion was making him sleepy, and his eyes drifted shut. "Dean... you're disappearing again. Dean, can you hear me?"

Dean tried to open his eyes. "Dean?" When he got them open, it was Sam, sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at him with concern. He had a hand on Dean's shoulder. He'd probably been shaking Dean awake.

"Wha'?" he asked, feeling stupid and slow.

"Your arm is broken," Sam said, "I checked it while you were asleep. You need to go to the hospital, and I'm not gonna carry you. Come on, get up."

"No," Dean protested, but Sam was already trying to haul him to his feet. "Sammy, no... I don' wanna go, okay?"

"Sheesh, Dean," Sam retorted, already manhandling Dean to the door. "You sound like a three-year-old."

"Seven," Dean retorted, and wished he hadn't. Sam gave him a startled, worried look.

"Are you okay?" he wondered, opening the door to the motel and guiding Dean outside.

"Yeah, Sam," he answered, tiredly, wondering why he was slurring his words. "I jus' meant, at _least_ seven." Yeah, great save.

Sam snorted, and stuffed him in the passenger seat of the Impala. He went around, got in, made sure Dean was buckled, then drove out. "Maybe we should let this one go," he murmured, after he'd been knawing on his thumbnail for awhile at a stoplight.

"What?" Dean snapped, "No... We're goin' back just as soon as I get on my feet again."

Sam eyed him, that same troubled look he'd had when Dean had gone on his rampage, or "tailspin" as Sam had referred to it. "You sure?"

Dean nodded decisively. "Yeah, I'm sure."

- - -

Sam was pretty ticked off when he found out one of Dean's ribs was cracked, too, and he had "neglected" to mention it. He was probably going to get a lecture later. They x-rayed him for internal injuries, but it turned out he was okay, so they set everything, bandaged him up, and casted his arm.

Then they drugged him up pretty good, too. Enough that he was sleeping most of the time. He didn't dream at first, not of the woods, mostly just random images, snatches of things he'd fought, other nightmares, older dreams.

And then he dreamed of the cabin, and this time all the casts and stuff had come with him. Only, he wasn't on meds, and he hurt like crazy.

He noticed his hoody was still lying across the back of the couch, so he got it and struggled into it. Then he dropped down into the couch and curled into one corner of it, rocking himself back and forth to try and control the pain.

O'Conner wasn't around, he guessed, and he was starting to get restless. So he got up and went to check out the kitchen he'd seen the man go into before. At least, he was _assuming_ it was a kitchen, since O'Conner had come back from it with a glass of water and the aspirin. It was.

He checked the fridge, found some leftovers and climbed onto a chair to reach the cupboards. He got a plate and put the leftover chicken and rice on it, popped it in the microwave and sat at the table, waiting.

The microwave beeped, and he got up, feeling a little dizzy. He swayed, caught himself on the edge of the table, then got his dinner and found a fork in a drawer. He sat down to eat, and was suprised when it didn't take him that long to get full. At least he didn't feel nauseous too.

When he was through eating, he sat at the table, rocking again, sipping from the water he'd gotten every now and then.

"Dean!" The voice suprised him, and he swung around, knocking the plate off of the table. It cracked, and he froze, staring at O'Conner guiltily.

O'Conner stepped forward, and Dean flinched back, but the man only knelt down and picked up the biggest pieces. He went and tossed them in the trash, then got a broom and dustpan from the closet and swept up the rest and threw it away. He replaced the broom and dustpan, then turned back to Dean.

"Are you okay?" he asked. His eyes went to the cast on Dean's left arm. He'd had to pull the sleeve of his hoody over it and left it rolled up because it was too thick to wear underneath. Well, he _could've_, but it would've looked dumb.

"Yeah, Sam took me to the hospital," he said, uneasily. "I'm sorry about the plate... and for stealing your food."

"Don't worry about it," O'Conner replied, giving him a wry smile. He got the chair that Dean had left by the counter, brought it to the table and sat down. "I'm glad you're okay." Dean ducked his head, feeling strangely embarrassed. He was about to mutter something sarcastic, when O'Conner added, "I researched your mysterious disappearing act at the library."

Dean's head snapped up. "The only thing that comes close is astral projection. But it didn't explain why you would be a little kid instead of just yourself."

"Astral projection?" Dean asked, pulling a face. "I'm not into all that New Age crap."

O'Conner chuckled. "I figured. The only thing I can guess is that maybe this is your _id,_ your inner desires turned into corporeal form, or something." Dean's brows shot up. This had to be a joke. "But that doesn't explain why your inner desires would keep bringing you back to _me_."

"Yeah," Dean grumbled, "Who are you, anyway? Some strange guy living in the middle of some woods. You're not a seriel killer are you?" He narrowed his eyes, suspiciously, and O'Conner laughed.

"Hardly," he said, "I... I'm just a widowed recluse, that's all. No children, no connection to your family, except maybe that your father was a widower too."

Dean paused at that, licking his lips, nervously. Maybe that _was_ a connection. "How did your wife die?"

At O'Conner's next words, his blood ran cold. "She died in a fire."


	4. Chapter 4

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**Vague and dire Warnings:** Other than that my story has a kinda hinky plot-line, you should watch out for... angst, and too many "chick-flick" moments. But once again, this chapter is only PG.

**- - -**

**Chapter Four**

"I got my baby girl out, but she died a week later," O'Conner went on, his voice soft, his dark eyes focused on the past.

Dean retorted, "I thought you said there wasn't any other connection! Our mother died in a fire, in Sam's nursery. She was pinned to the ceiling, and there was a slash across her stomach, dripping blood down onto Sammy's face!"

O'Conner's gaze shifted to him, obviously shocked. "I thought I'd lost my mind," he murmured, "Katherine died the same way. The _exact_ same way. I didn't tell anyone, but when Tracey died too, I left and came out here."

"This doesn't make sense," Dean said, "It wasn't in the news at all?" He was thinking of Ash, wondering why he had missed this.

O'Conner rubbed his jaw with a hand, shaking his head. "I didn't tell them where the fire started. I just told them my wife had died in it. This is about Tracey, isn't it? The reason she died too, and why Katherine died the way she did?"

Dean swallowed, moved out of his chair and clasped his hand around the man's wrist. Maybe this was some sort of answer, some sort of lead on the Yellow-Eyed Demon. He could only hope. "How did Tracey die?"

"She just..." O'Conner's voice broke, and Dean realized he was crying. "She just stopped trying, I guess. She wouldn't eat, and the IVs could only do so much. Then she quit breathing too, and a little while after that, her heart just stopped. It's almost like she missed her mother too much to keep living..."

Dean's mouth was open, lips moving, but there was nothing he could say. So he did what he did when Sam was angsting over something. He put his hand on O'Conner's arm and left it there.

The man gazed at him, patted the hand after a moment, and Dean let it drop to his side. "I came out here to Oregon to try and deal. I guess I haven't yet." He let out a soft, sad chuckle.

Dean couldn't blame him. He wondered whether it would have been the same if John had forgone the demon-hunting. "Sam has powers... He moved something with his mind once, and he has visions. Visions of people dying... my father--" He was suprised when his voice cracked, but he swallowed back the tears and went on, "--he told me to watch out for him. To watch out for him, and kill him if I had to. We don't know what he meant, but the demon that's been after Sam. It said it had plans. Plans for Sammy, and 'plans for children like him.' More psychics... maybe Tracey had gifts too."

"And you have gifts?" O'Conner asked, not even challenging anything that Dean had just told him. He just accepted it, just like that. He took Dean's arm. "Like your younger brother?"

Dean frowned. "It's not about me."

O'Conner scowled. "Then why are you here, in my kitchen--an astral projection? Doesn't that count as a gift?"

Dean pulled a face and moved away from O'Conner's grip. "It counts as one of the weird things me and Sam fight all the time. That's what our dad was--a Hunter. And that's what he raised us to be. It's just something I need to figure out, like any other job."

Dark eyes appraised him for a long moment, and Dean fought the urge to squirm. The worst thing about being a little kid again, was _feeling_ like a little kid again. And he couldn't blame his subconscious anymore because he'd known that this was real for awhile now. "I don't think so," O'Conner said firmly.

"I've read somewhere that things like this run in families. It's even possible that your father or mother had a touch of these abilities. Did your father ever seem to make leaps that didn't seem to be from logic alone?"

Dean's eyes flared wider for a moment. "But th-that's i-intuition, or whatever!" he protested. "Even _I_ have that." He blinked at what he was saying then cursed under his breath. He got the feeling O'Conner was about to latch onto what he'd just said.

"Yeah," O'Conner said, "Intuition. What exactly is it, anyway? That feeling that wakes you up in the middle of the night to an empty bed? And you walk down the hall to your baby's room, feeling a pit growing at the bottom of your belly. Or maybe it's that thing that helps you get from point A to point C, without needing to go through point B first. I don't know, but maybe it has something to do with psychic gifts. Maybe it means something." Was that a note of desperation Dean heard. He wasn't sure.

"Maybe it doesn't mean jack," he retorted.

"Do you know when your brother's in trouble? Could you feel it when your father died?" How had he known?

"I-I had a bad feeling before he... yeah. And I've always known when something was wrong. Like when he went missing, I had to go get Sam from Stanford. To go look for him. He was tracking the Demon that'd killed our mom, and he was getting pretty close. But that doesn't mean I'm psychic. We're family, and that's how close families are."

O'Conner nodded, thoughtfully. "Maybe. Hey?" He frowned when Dean started to sway. "Are you okay?" He caught Dean's arms, and Dean nodded, unconvincingly. He'd been standing for a few minutes now, and he was starting to feel light-headed again.

When he lost his balance completely, though, O'Conner scooped him up and carried him to the living room. He deposited Dean on the couch and questioned, "Did they give you something for the pain?"

Dean blinked at him, his eyes blurred in a different way then when he started to disappear. "Yeah, I'm all hopped up on meds over there, but I don't think it stays with me when I come here."

"Okay," O'Conner said, clasped Dean's arm briefly then went off toward the kitchen. He came back with a pill and glass of water, like before, and Dean made a face at him.

"I nearly choked on that last time," he grouched.

"Just take it, please," O'Conner said, holding them out. Dean sat up carefully and took the pill and washed it down. Jake set the glass of water on the side table, and sat beside Dean.

"You'll probably go back in a bit now, when that kicks in," he said, "So I'll make this quick. We're connected somehow, maybe because of what happened to my wife and your mother, maybe because of something else. But I'm going to figure it out, okay?"

Dean nodded, lay back against the arm of the couch. "Okay. But are you sure you want to start getting involved in all this? When my dad started to chase after the demon, he ended up hunting everything else too. You can't turn back from this kind of life."

Jake looked pensive, dark eyes on the empty fireplace. For some reason, Dean imagined he never used it. "Maybe that's why I've been holed up out here in the middle of nowhere. I couldn't decide what was worth living for, anymore. Maybe this is it--'hunting,' like you call it." He turned his head to face Dean and smiled, a sort of resigned smile, sad but happy in a weird way, too. "Helping people."

Dean nodded. "It's why Sammy and I do it."

Jake broke into a wide grin, patted Dean's knee. He withdrew his hand and the frown returned to his shadowed face. "How did you get hurt, Dean?"

He blinked, looked down at his cast. "A poltergeist that we thought was either a demon or a ghost. We didn't come prepared for the right thing, and it knocked us around before we got the heck out of there."

"And you still need to go back?" Jake wondered, and Dean nodded, eyeing him carefully. What? No speech about being careful, how letting himself get so beat up was some sort of sign of his mental instability?

"Have to finish the job, or more people could get hurt," he said, matter-of-factly.

"And you'll go, right after you get out of the hospital?" Jake questioned, and Dean's false sense of security vanished. The guy was definitely digging again.

"Yeah, as soon as I'm on my feet," he replied.

Jake nodded. "Is that another thing your father taught you?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Rating/Warnings:** PG chapter, although... er. PG-13. A little fighting, maybe. :D

**- - -  
**

**Chapter Five  
**

Dean stiffened and demanded, "What right do you have asking me stuff like that about my dad? He was a _good_ father to me and Sam!" His tone said that he didn't want to hear anything different.

"Yet you told me he sold his own soul," Jake returned, obviously not the type of man who backed down. "Is that any kind of example?"

He stared at Jake, his throat growing thick. He wanted to shout, but when he spoke, his voice was pale and breaking, "He did it for me. To save me. He traded his life... so that I would come out of my coma."

Jake's face filled with compassion. It made Dean want to hit him, but he just sat there, a small, wound-up ball of pain and anguish. "I'm sorry," Jake touched his knee again, fingertips grazing and then hand dropping back to his lap once more. "I can be a little stubborn. I shouldn't have pushed the subject..."

Dean didn't tell him it was okay. After a moment, Jake questioned, "I want to know the truth. How did John raise you and Sam?"

This again? And he'd just gotten through apologizing, now he was going to turn right back around and start it up again? "He raised us right. He did the best he could under the circumstances."

The man nodded his shaggy, dark head. "He never hit you? Forced you to fight when you were already hurt? Yelled at you for something you didn't do wrong? Told you you were stupid or worthless?"

The blood in his face ran out, and then came back up burning his cheeks with heat. "No!"

"Then why are you _here_, Dean?" Jake demanded, frustration coming to the surface. "There's just so much research I can do, and the only thing that's explaining why you might be here is that you might have been hurt. That maybe something caused you to stay a little boy inside. And you're telling me your father _never_ hurt you. And the only other thing I can think of is that you lost your mother and then got tossed into this frightening, supernatural world!"

He'd thrown up his hands, and Dean had instinctively pulled back against the arm of the couch. He cried out and held his side with his casted arm. "What is it?" Jake demanded, reaching out for him.

"It's nothing," Dean said, hurriedly. "I just hurt my ribs too. They're alright though. Just jarred them again."

Jake ignored him, running his hand along Dean's back. "Right here?" he questioned, and Dean replied with a yelp. Jake frowned as he leaned over Dean, his hand covering the spot on his back. The pain eased, an odd, tingling heat seeping down deep into his side.

His lung stopped aching, and he stared up at Jake, mouth agape. "How did you...?"

Jake sat back and stared down at his hand. "It runs in families," he muttered. Sighing, he leaned back against the couch's other arm. "I'm really wiped, all of a sudden. Dean? You gonna be okay if I just rest my eyes?" When Dean nodded, he closed his eyes and tucked his long legs up on the couch. Dean frowned, most of his room having been taken.

"I guess I'll take the bed," he grumbled, and started to get off the couch, still marveling at the way his back no longer hurt.

He headed in the opposite direction from the kitchen, stepping into the large bedroom. It was dark, and the bed was huge. And there was no Sam in the other bed because there _was_ no other bed, and Jake was in the living room. Dean shivered, suddenly not wanting to be alone.

He retraced his steps then stood by the couch, staring down at the man there, for a moment. He looked a little bit like John, with his eyes closed like that. Dad had had a thicker face, but still... there was some resemblance. He stood, indecisive, for a minute or two more, and then the lethargy started to weigh down on him.

Sighing, he thought, _'What the hey?'_ and climbed onto the couch beside Jake. He curled up, with his back facing him, and soon found a large arm wrapped around his middle. He tried to pry it off of him, but it just tightened, and he gave up. Stupid idea, seriously stupid.

And then the weariness returned, and he found himself closing his eyes.

- - -

When Dean woke up again, he was in the hospital, and Sam was sitting beside his bed, sleeping. "Hey," he called, his voice sounding hoarse and echoey in the strange room.

Sam sat up, blinking at him with bleary, hazel eyes. "How're you feeling?" he wondered, and Dean nodded.

He moved a little, experimentally, and his eyes widened when he realized his back still wasn't hurting. Uh, oh. "Uhm, Sam... I think we need to get out of here before the doctors take another x-ray."

"What?" Sam demanded, sounding confused and aggravated all at once.

Dean sat up and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He looked down, snatched out the IV before he could think about whether it was going to hurt or not, then left Sam beside the bed trying to stop the flow of the thing before it leaked all over the place.

"Dean," he hissed, angrily, while Dean was rummaging in the closet for his clothes. "What the heck are you doing?"

"It's a long story, Sammy, but my rib was healed. I don't want any questions, so let's get out of here as fast as we can, okay?" He pulled his boxer briefs and pants on. Sam stared at him, then, through tightening the clamp of the IV, eyebrows going up.

"You're serious?"

"Dead," Dean replied, quickly, trying to save time.

Sam pulled a face at the expression, and Dean got through putting on his shirt and jacket. He looked around for his shoes, eventually found the boots and shoved his feet into them while still standing, balancing on one leg at a time. He shoved the shoelaces into them, not wanting to waste time tying them, and straightened, motioning for Sam to come on.

Sam shook his head. "I want that explanation later," he said, flatly.

"Okay, let's just get out of here, first," Dean agreed. He wasn't looking forward to it, but it was too late now. He couldn't take it back without raising Sam's Spidey-sense.

They were out of the hospital in a matter of minutes, and driving away in the Impala, Sam at the wheel again. Dean _did_ have a broken arm, even if he _could_ drive one-handed. He hadn't argued though because Sam was going to be ticked off with him enough as it was.

- - -

Back at the motel, Sam demanded, "So tell me what's going on. Does this have something to do with those dreams you've been having?"

Dean fidgeted mightily, glancing away with furtive, sideways eyes. "Dean!" Sam snapped, obviously getting tired of waiting.

Dean jumped, swore, then finally looked Sam in the eyes and answered, "I-I've sort of been having this dream... about being a kid again, out in some woods in Oregon. Turns out, I might be astral projecting."

Sam stared at him, mouth open, eyebrows up. That wasn't his skeptical look. It was his, "This really can't be happening, can it?" look. "A kid?"

"Yeah," Dean said, twisting the ring on his right ring-finger. "And there's this man out there--Jake O'Conner. He says his wife died the same way Mom did. And that his baby girl died only a week later. He thinks she died of a broken heart."

His little brother looked at him like maybe he was crazy, and then the look sort of just slipped off his face like he was thinking, _'Okay, maybe this isn't one of those unicorn type things.'_ "Does he have a number?" Sam questioned, ever the analytical one. "We could call him and see if he's really there."

"I don't know," Dean said, with an annoyed groan. "I should've asked, but we always end up talking about me somehow." He winced, realizing how that'd just come out sounding.

"About you?" Sam asked, anxiously. "Like in what way? Dean, is this man a pedophile?"

"Come on, Sam!" Dean protested, face getting all uncomfortable and flushed. "He's just like Dad, without the obsessive demon-hunting." Oh, yeah, great. _That'd_ really made it better. Lowering his gaze to his lap, Dean waited for Sam to jump to all the wrong conclusions.

"Dean..." was Sammy's response. "Are you...? I mean..." Dean looked up, seeing the conflict plainly on Sam's face, lips twisted up at the corners in a soft grimace, deep frown, eyes narrowed. "Are you getting attached?" he finally blurted out, and Dean stiffened.

"What the heck sort of question is that?" he demanded. "He's a stranger. Of course I'm not getting attached." But he was. He was lying, he realized. Methinks the Hunter doth protest too much.

"You are," Sam stated, looking really disturbed now. "This is Gordon all over again," he muttered, and Dean shot to his feet.

"Sam," he said, "I swear if you start accusing me of trying to replace Dad again, I'm going to do _more_ than just deck you."

Sam glared, got to his feet too, managing to tower over Dean yet again. "Maybe I should deck _you_, Dean! I mean, what are you _thinking_? You barely even know this guy, and already you're comparing him to Dad. Are you _that_ desperate to have someone else run your life for you?"

Dean didn't think--he just acted. He punched Sam so hard he was a little afraid he'd broken his hand... and maybe one of Sam's molars. Sam fell on the bed, sat up quickly. "Bas--"

"Okay, Sam!" Dean fumed, "Is that what you want to hear? I thought I was dreaming, and I was looking for Dad! I didn't find him, but then Jake came out of nowhere. And he tried to help me, and he healed my back, and he didn't yell at me for breaking his plate--and I'm pretty sure it was one of those antique china ones that get passed down from your great-grandmother so-and-so. But he just threw it in the trash like it was nothin' and asked me if I was okay."

Sam stared at him, slack-jawed, eyes wide. And that's when Dean realized he'd been crying. Angrily, he swiped away the tears and turned away. "Dean." Sam pulled him around, gazing worriedly down at him. "Dean, this could--it could just be a dream. I mean, you've been kind of hurt, and drugged, and... and..."

Dean shook his head, clasped his hand around Sam's upper arm. "It's not a dream. Look at my back."

Sam blinked, swallowed, turned him around, pulling up the end of Dean's shirt and jacket. Dean hissed when cold fingers brushed over his back, where the cracked rib had been. Sam poked him there, and he started to growl something about him being careful, when his brother spoke up, "This should be impossible."


	6. Chapter 6

**  
**

**Warnings/Rating:** PG for this chapter, I think. I'm starting to think this whole story is just one long conversation though. :P But I hear some of you like that, so I guess it's okay. Anything else...? Hm, Dean acting really ooc? Yeah. Well, guess that might fall under crack!fic. :D

- - -

**Chapter Six**

Dean turned around, frowning. "Why, Sammy?"

Sam straightened and gave him one of _those_ looks. One of the ones that said Dean should be much quicker than that, that he knew his big brother might not be a genius, but he sure wasn't slow, either. "Even if you _are_ astral-projecting, technically anything that happened to your other self wouldn't affect _you_. So how did Jake heal you?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe he healed _this_ me, somehow?"

"Incredulous" didn't quite fit the expression Sam had on now. "From all the way in Oregon?"

Dean muttered to himself for a moment in frustration than demanded, "What are you getting at, Sam?"

"Maybe--" Sam laughed, a nervous, unhinged sound that scared Dean a little. "Maybe _you_ healed yourself."

He pulled a face, thinking his brother had finally lost it. "That's retarded, Sammy, really. I was expecting more from you." He sat down on the bed and held his aching arm to his chest.

Sam scowled, motioned with his arms, retorting, "The first theory is _impossible_, Dean! The second one at least fits Sherlock Holmes' theory that no matter how improbable, whatever remains, must be the truth."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Dean asked, licking his lips and smirking. "Is _that_ what you were always reading under the covers at night, with the flashlight on?"

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Don't change the subject. You could be another psychic."

"It doesn't fit the pattern," Dean pointed out.

"Missouri?" Sam retorted; Dean glared. Sam finally sat down, as if his legs were just giving out. It usually appeared that way because his brother was so friggin' tall. And boney. Dean pictured him folding up like a chair and suddenly felt queasy. Bad image.

"Tell me more about this guy, Jake," Sam said quietly, "What sort of questions does he ask you?"

Dean gave Sam a hard stare, but when was the last time Sam had backed down? He hardly remembered. "He asked me if Dad ever hit us, or pretty much abused us. He can't figure out why I'm a little kid everytime I show up, thinks maybe something traumatic happened to me." Dean pitched his voice to make it sound like these ideas were absurd, but Sam could always see right through him.

"Like Mom dying? Dad? Like being raised to fight monsters?" he questioned, pointedly, just a little sarcasm thrown in for good measure.

"I told him he had no right to talk about Dad that way," he said, darkly, "It really stumped him. I guess he'd been doing a lot of research about id's and astral projection. Nothing was making sense."

"Inner Desires?" Sam questioned, perking up a little. "He thought maybe your kid-self was a projection of your id?"

Dean nodded, uncertainly. "I think maybe that was along the same line he was thinking."

"Dean, then..." Sam's hand fluttered. "Maybe it's something you want, projecting you over to this man. You said when you first showed up in the dream, you were looking for Dad, right?" Dean nodded, frowning. Sam was getting that excited, on-a-roll look though, and he wasn't about to interrupt. "Maybe you were looking for Dad, maybe that's what your subconscious wants. But it couldn't figure out how to translate the request because Dad is gone, so instead, it found someone like him--someone connected to him in some way."

He let that sink in, trying to quell the defensive response of anger. He shook his head, sharply. "Sam, if I'm not doing it somehow, what caused it? Is this some kind of bad mojo or something? Some sort of freaky curse?"

Sam was quiet for a moment. "I don't think so," he finally spoke. "We haven't gotten on any witch's bad side, not that I know of. It has to be you, Dean. Maybe even the healing thing, too."

Frowning, Dean mulled over it. "Wait, Jake went to sleep after he healed me. He practically passed out. What if it was because he somehow reached all the way over here, through my mini-id, to heal me?"

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Yeah, possibly."

"It makes a heck of a lot more sense than me being a healer," Dean pointed out, succintly.

Sam shrugged and rolled his eyes in acknowledgement. Dean attempted to change the subject, "Let's go finish off the poltergeist." The suggestion didn't go over real well though.

"No, _Dean!_ You have a broken arm, and you're probably still concussed too."

"You got to hunt with a broken wrist," Dean griped. "I don't see what the difference is."

Sam was silent, seething beneath the surface again, probably. "That guy in your dream is right--you _do_ have issues."

Dean blinked. After a moment, he got up and went to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He put the lid down and sat on the toilet. A knock. "Dean?" Dean glared at the closed and locked door. "Dean!" Sam called, insistently.

"You're acting like a--!" A curse. "Dean, open the door!" Sam was really worried. Maybe he should just get out of his funk and open the stupid door.

Instead he called, striving to keep his voice even, "Go finish the poltergeist, Sam. Do it without me."

"What are you--crazy?" Sam demanded, pounding on the door again. Dean winced. "I can't do it without you!" Maybe that was the problem.

"Then get the pouches ready," Dean called. "And go away."

Silence. Then Sam shuffling his feet or something, and a quiet, "Fine," before Dean felt Sam move away from the door. _'What is intuition anyway?'_ he remembered Jake asking. He wondered now, too.

A little while later, he lay down on the floor and tried to go to sleep...

- - -

When he found himself in the cabin, he didn't expect to find Jake still lying on the couch, asleep. He frowned, noticing how pale the man looked. He moved closer and shook his shoulder, calling worriedly, "Jake."

The man stirred marginally, and Dean felt a jolt of relief. "Hey, wake up," he called, wondering how long it had been since he'd last been there. Only a few hours if the time went the same, but shouldn't Jake have been awake by now?

Jake's eyes fluttered, long lashes brushing against the dark shadows under his eyes. He made a small, groaning noise then drifted off again. "Jake!" Dean yelled, shaking him with both hands now.

"Dean?" Jake opened his eyes, but they stayed dark and hazy, like he wasn't really awake. "What's wrong?" His hand fumbled for Dean's arm.

"You wouldn't wake up," Dean said, quietly, wishing he didn't sound so much like a little kid who was on the verge of sulking... or maybe it was "crying" he was thinking of. But really, he was trying not to think of it.

"It's okay," Jake said, grunting as he sat up. "I'm awake now. Did you stay the whole time?"

Dean shook his head and sat down beside Jake. "I went to sleep and woke up back in the hospital. You healed my rib all the way to over there. Sam said you shouldn't have been able to do that... hey, do you have a phone out here?"

"You told your brother?" Jake asked, quirking a half smile at Dean. He ruffled Dean's hair out of nowhere, and Dean scowled even though he really didn't mind. "What'd he say about all this?"

"That I'm doing it," Dean replied, "Like maybe I have powers. He's crazy."

"I don't think so," Jake replied. "It makes more sense than anything else. Are you asleep right now?" he wondered.

"Yeah," Dean answered, not adding anything more.

"In the hospital?" Jake pried.

"No, at the motel," Dean said, glaring at the pattern on the throw rug.

"Dean," Jake said, taking his chin between his fingers. "You're closing him off. I can feel it. Don't do that to Sam; he's your brother and he cares about you."

Dean stared into Jake's dark, deeper-than-night eyes, mouth open. "You feel i-it?"

Jake released his chin and ran a hand over his grizzled face. "I feel it," he murmured. There was a very long silence that disturbed Dean more because Jake's eyes were so distant, than because of the actual absense of noise. "I think I know why Tracey died."

Dean felt a chill, all the way from the back of his neck, shooting down the rest of his spine until it forced him to shiver convulsively. "Why?" He didn't notice when his hand found a place on Jake's thigh.

Jake's lips trembled and his eyes remained distant as he spoke, almost mechanically, "My baby was an empath... and she couldn't take it when the bond between her and her mother was cut."

Viciously, like a twist in his gut, he hated the Demon even more than he already had. He wasn't sure how that was possible, only that he felt so knotted up inside that he almost felt like throwin up. "How do you know?" he whispered.

Jake's eyes finally met his, seeing into the present again. "Because those are my gifts."


	7. Chapter 7

**Warning/Rating: **Excessive talking. :) PG.

**- - -  
**

**Chapter Seven**

The words echoed in Dean's mind until he felt a headache coming on. "An empath? You?"

"Yes, and a healer," Jake answered, with a strange little chuckle.

"And you know what I'm feeling?" he asked, voice becoming slightly harder than usual. Strange coming from this little-kid voice.

"Dean," Jake turned to him, scooting around a bit. He took Dean's upper arms. "You're shutting down because you're scared. You're scared of what all this means, but it's alright to be scared. But you can't shut Sam out because of it, understand? The only way to overcome fear is to face it, right? You have to let him back in, Dean."

Dean jerked away, moved off the couch when Jake's arms slipped in surprise. He stood, facing off against the man who was fast becoming his friend. "And what does this mean? Why does it make me scared?" he demanded, too angry now to be embarrassed by the way his voice squeaked.

Jake shook his head, the gesture carrying a trace of sadness. "I can't tell you that, Dean. I think only you can figure it out."

When Dean wouldn't reply, he reached out, taking his arm and said, "I'll give you my cell number. You're going to have to memorize it, okay?" He told Dean, and Dean repeated it back to him. When Jake didn't correct him, he repeated it until it would be stuck in his head forever.

"I'm going to go get something from town," Jake said, rising. "Why don't you get some sleep. You're still looking a little wan."

"Look at _you_," Dean snapped back, still upset and not really sure why.

Jake chuckled and got to his feet. "I'll be fine." But he swayed a little and blinked a few times before regaining his balance. He had a bad feeling, watching Jake heading away from him.

"Wait!" He ran over and wrapped his arms around the man's legs. And his adult brain didn't even feel the slightest bit humiliated. "Don't go..."

Jake crouched down. "What is it, Dean?" he questioned, taking Dean's arms.

He sniffled, feeling tears coming on. "It feels wrong. Something's gonna happen to you."

"Nothing's going to happen to me," Jake assured him, then pulled him into a hug. Dean felt enveloped, wrapped in warmth and something oh, so familiar. "It'll be okay, you'll see."

"Don't go," he repeated, but Jake drew away and stood. He ruffled Dean's hair.

"Go to sleep, okay? When you come back again, I'll still be here." And he left without a backward glance, closing the heavy, wooden door behind him.

- - -

Dean felt hot tears on his face when he woke up again, lying in an awkward position on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. He sat up, cracked his stiff neck, rotated his aching shoulder. _'Great idea, Dean, sleepin' on the freakin' floor,'_ he thought, and got to his feet with effort.

He used the bathroom before leaving, looked around for Sam, found him asleep on the bed. He watched him for awhile, chest rising and falling. Jake had told him that only he could figure it out, and not to be afraid of letting Sam in.

He had to try at least, he realized and went and sat next to Sam on the bed. He called out softly, half-hoping Sam wouldn't wake up, "Hey. Sammy."

Sam opened his eyes, sat up, scooted up against the headboard, rubbing away sleepers. "Hey, you finally decide to stop acting like an emo teenager?"

Dean decided not to take offense, shrugging and saying instead, "Jake told me to stop acting like one."

"He your dad now?" Sam wanted to know, bitingly. Even half-asleep he was still better at fighting with words than Dean would ever be.

"Yeah," Dean shocked everyone in the room by answering. "But it doesn't matter because he's sick now. And it's my fault."

Sam sighed, a tired too familiar sound. "Everything's your fault, Dean."

At first, Dean wasn't sure of what he meant, so he just narrowed his eyes, tilted his head, and then he got it. Oh. "Not everything," he tried to joke, "Just the stuff that counts."

Sam frowned, not too thrilled with his sense of humor. "Why were you freaking out earlier?"

"I was so scared, I had to use the bathroom," Dean joked again, then licked his dry lips. "I mean it--I was scared. You were picking at my skin again, and I didn't want you to see what was underneath. I'm just a kid under there, all lost and alone, in some woods, just looking for my daddy. And I can't find him because he's not anywhere anymore--not even in my dreams, Sammy. And I wish to God I could just conjure him out of thin air, but it's not gonna happen. So I keep trying to find some replacement, and they keep disappointing me. 'Cause it's not what I really need in the first place."

To say that Sam was shocked would be an understatement. He was flabbergasted. "Dean... I--" he began.

"Wait, lemme finish, before I lose my nerve," Dean interrupted. "I think I'm going to Jake's 'cause he's an empath. I don't think he realizes it, but he's the one that reached out for me. He's been pulling me over to him while I sleep because of the connection--his wife dying, and Mom dying. He lost his little girl, and I just lost--" His voice broke. "We just lost Dad. So he brought me over, and now he's trying to help me. Because he couldn't do it for them."

"So it'll stop when he's sure you're alright?" Sam questioned, looking stunned. Dean nodded, still not sure if his theory was correct. "And how will he know?"

"He's an empath," Dean said, finding himself grinning a little. "He'll know."

They decided to finish the poltergeist job that night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Rating/Warnings: **PG-13, for some gore and violence. Major, angsty cliffhanger. Sorry, guys. :)

** - - -  
**

**Chapter Eight**

The house was eerily silent.

Sam looked at Dean, and he looked back, nodding his head. A silent affirmation that the thing inside was simply waiting for them to make their move, biding its time.

"I'll start in the back," Sam said, hefting his hammer and the duffel bag, with the other half of the poultices in it.

"Be careful," Dean told him, and headed for the dining room. He had his own bag of poultices. Sam had been busy while Dean had been freaking out in the bathroom. Well, he _had_ told him to make them, but maybe Sam had gone a touch overboard, since they actually only needed four for each corner of the house--north, south, east and west.

"You too," Sam called over his shoulder as he headed away.

Dean reached the kitchen, tested the wall a few times, glancing morbidly out into the dining room where the broken table lay. He would be more than glad when this whole thing was over and done with. It didn't help that the last time they'd dealt with a poltergeist had been back in Kan-- Dean frowned at his wayward thoughts and brought down the hammer, tearing the stained wallpaper and cracking the drywall.

Everything was going fine until the lights went out. He tried turning on his flashlight, and it just didn't come on. He called out, nervously, "Sam! Where are you?"

He felt someone move behind him, turned, saying, "Sam, don't sneak up on--" And saw that it wasn't Sam.

It was a shadow, a figure about his height, reaching for him, sillouetted by the dim light still coming in from the windows. It reached for him, and Dean reached behind himself and shoved the pouch through the opening he'd made in the wall.

The shadow was still there, but at least he'd been able to put a pouch in the kitchen. Sam would just have to deal with the rest.

- - -

The last thing he remembered was that shadowy figure facing off with him, and now he was here on Jake's couch. He must have lost consciouness, he realized. Then when he sat up, he felt and saw why.

There was blood seeping out of a wound in his chest. It wasn't over his heart, at least, but it was right smack dab in the middle. And that must be why he coughed up blood a moment later. He saw the splatter on Jake's rug and winced. _'I hope he doesn't kill me for that.'_

Well, he probably wouldn't be able to get a chance. Dean would already be dead by the time he got back. Or had he already...? He grabbed the shawl over the end of the couch and held it to his chest. He coughed up blood again, onto his own lap this time.

This wasn't good... How had it happened? Well, the poltergeist could project stuff, and he _had_ been in the kitchen. Maybe he'd gotten a knife in the chest. Yeah, sounded about right. A gurgly whimper escaped his lips, and Dean tried to get off the couch. If Jake wasn't here, then he needed to go find help.

He collapsed onto the floor, a useless heap. When blood started to pool near his head, on the wooden floorboards, he realized his shoulder was bleeding too. Had that been there a moment ago? Maybe the poltergeist was still attacking him...

He started to crawl towards the doorway, dragging himself with his good arm. The shawl got left behind, and probably a streak of blood too. Dean didn't care anymore. He just had to survive, he had to make sure Sammy was okay. Even if he lived just long enough to make sure Sam was all right, that would be enough.

"Dean!" Someone roared, and he moaned in answer.

As Jake was flipping him over, Dean caught sight of the open doorway and a bag of groceries and what looked like first-aid supplies spilling onto the floor, where the bag had been dropped. "Jake..." he gurgled, blood burbling up out of his lips.

Jake gasped and his hands fluttered over Dean's chest. "What happened?" he questioned, frantically trying to find the wound. He ripped open Dean's t-shirt and sobbed. Dean looked down long enough to see why, and looked away again, trying to focus on Jake's face.

"It's... okay..." he tried to reassure the man. "I'm just... dying... tha's all..."

"_No,_" Jake said fiercely. "You're not. You're not going to die, Dean. I _won't_ let you." And he placed his hands over Dean's chest, over the horrible tear in his flesh. And then there was warmth and peace, and someone calling to him, "Dean! Dean, can you hear me?"

He jerked awake, Sam's face loomed above him, panicked and as white as a... well, never mind. "Sam?" he questioned. Sam was messing with the the bottom of his shirt, suddenly. He pulled it up, while Dean tried weakly to push his hands away.

He looked down in time to see all the blood staining his chest, streaming down his sides. Sam's eyes were wide as he wiped it away. Underneath, there was nothing but smooth flesh and some fine-colored chest hairs. "Get off me," Dean grumbled, shoving Sam away.

He groaned at the movement because his shoulder hurt like it was on fire from the inside out. He took a look and realized it'd been stabbed through by something. On the floor beside him were two bloody kitchen knives.

"The poltergeist?" he questioned Sam, choosing to ignore the evidence of his near death.

"Gone," Sam said. "I finished it." His eyes on Dean's face were hollow with fear.

"Come on, Sammy," he said, trying to distract his brother to get rid of that awful look. "I need you to stitch me up. Don't want to bleed all over the Impala."

Sam made a face, reached to help him up. "I'll fix you up when we get to the motel. Just apply pressure."

Dean grinned. Sam's annoyance was much better than that terror he'd glimpsed. Much better.

- - -

Hours later, he'd gotten stitched up, taken a shower then dropped into bed and slept for hours. He woke up in the morning, feeling a sense that something was still unfinished. Sam had asked him what had happened to the wound in his chest, and Dean had evaded the question.

But now he remembered the way Jake had healed him, and the uneasy feeling grew. He dialed the number he'd memorized, and it kept ringing... it didn't stop until it'd gone to voice mail. _'Hi, you've reached Jake O'Conner's cell. Please leave me a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.'_

_Deja-vu_, icy and irrevocable. Sam came out of the bathroom, hair wet from his shower, and asked, "Dean? What is it?"

Dean swallowed. "I think... Jake... I th-think..." He called again. No answer. He hung up before it reached the voice mail. Sam came to sit next to him on his bed. Dean called again.

"Hello?" a male voice answered, gruff, unfamiliar.

"Uhm, i-is this Jake?" he questioned, vaguely noticing that he'd begun to tremble.

"Who is this?" the voice asked.

"A friend of his," Dean said, "Is something wrong?" _'Please say 'no' please say 'no' please say 'no'...'_

"This is Sheriff Munroe," the man said, his voice softened some, which made him sound sort of hoarse, "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you--Jake died some time last night. Looks like his heart just stopped, although we're having trouble figuring out where all the blood came fro--"

Dean dropped the phone. When it hit the floor with a crack, he didn't even flinch.


	9. Chapter 9

**Rating: **PG-13.**  
**

**- - -  
**

**Chapter Nine**

He's asleep now, and I'm driving.

He hasn't spoken since he heard. I've never seen Dean like this before, and it scares the crap out of me. But weird as it sounds, I think he's going to be okay.

He didn't tell me what happened, but as soon as he dropped his phone, I kind of knew. Dean was shaking, and he didn't stop, even after I wrapped my arms around him and held on for like twenty minutes.

Finally, I just gave up, wrapped him in his jacket and packed up our things. He didn't even seem to notice when I helped him put the jacket on all the way. He just let me move him around like he was some sort of human doll, not quite limp, but not too stiff to adjust.

I packed up the car and then came back for him. He didn't even say anything when I put him in the passenger seat. When we were about a mile out, he leaned into the door and went to sleep.

I don't know why I wanted to get out of there so quick. With Dean acting like this, I should've stayed awhile longer. Long enough for him to start seeing outside himself, anyway. It doesn't matter now, though.

I drive until I can't keep my eyes open anymore, then I find another motel and check us in. When I get back out to the Impala, Dean is awake and staring through the windshield. I take the bags into our room first, then come back to see if he's going to need me to walk him inside.

He's over by another car, throwing up. I cuss up a storm and rush over to him. "Dean, are you alright?" I grab him underneath his arm and around his shoulder, and he looks up at me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

His eyes are glazed and just a bit too vacant. "It's my fault," he says, and then lets me take him to the room.

I don't bother trying to tell him it's not because he won't listen to me right now, anyway. I wait until he falls asleep, in his clothes--I only pulled off his boots for him--then I do some research on trauma.

I stay up past one, but when I can't remember the last thing I read anymore, I finally go to bed.

- - -

I hear screaming, and think it's me for a moment. And then I sit up straight and look over to Dean's bed and realize it's him. He's fighting with blankets I didn't even throw over him and screaming bloody murder.

"Dean, Dean!" I shout, getting up and grabbing him by his flailing arms. "Stop! Wake up!"

He screams and hits me, and I see stars before I can grab his wrists. "Dean!"

"No! No! No! No!" he yells, hoarsely. He sounds terrible, like he's torn his throat apart or something.

I'm helpless, and I know it, so I just hold him down wondering if this will go on forever. He finally stops, sobbing so hard I think maybe he's going to throw up again. He doesn't, so I hold him-- and keep holding him.

"It's my fault," he whispers, voice all broken and ravaged now. I half-believe that this isn't really Dean. I wish it weren't.

"It's not your fault," I say, firmly. "He did it because he cared about you." Wrong thing to say. Dean shoves me so hard, I fall off the bed.

His eyes are stormy, the green in them like a violent sea. "And so did Dad! And I'm not worth it, Sammy! I'm _not_, but they don't see it! All they see is--is--" He looks frantic, the fist of his good arm, and the fingers of his casted one, unclenching and clenching into the sheets on either side of him. His eyes dart back and forth, his mouth works, silently. "What do th-they see th-that's worth saving?"

Tears stream down my cheeks. "Oh, _God_, Dean. They see _you_, idiot. That's what." I make it to the bed again. "_You_. Because you're loyal and good, and you're worth it. And I _swear_, if you ever say otherwise again," I vow, crushing him to me, "I will kick your butt."

He's very still for a minute or two, and then his fingers cling to the shirt at my back, nails digging in, that's how tightly he's holding on. "Don't do that for me, Sam," he begs, "Please don't."

I can't promise him anything, so I say instead, "It's okay, Dean. Shh, now. Go to sleep." But my conscience aches because I made him promise something too. I _owe_ him, and he knows it.

"_Please_, Sammy."

I swallow hard. "Okay, Dean. Okay."

He finally goes limp in my arms, and I lower him to the bed. I don't sleep that night.

- the end, for now -


	10. Preview of Continuation

**A/N:** Thanks to some of you reviewers, I didn't have a whole lot of trouble editing _most_ of those discrepencies I was so irritated over. I appreciate the input, and I thought ya'll might like this sneak-peak/preview to the continuation of "Within a Dream." One small warning though, stories I haven't finished yet _are_ at great risk of being changed any second. Anyway, hope you enjoy. :) And I'd like to know what you think--It'd really be helpful. :D

Also, thanks to **VesperRegina** for editing this chapter a little bit. (She's so nice.) :)

**Rating:** PG-13.

**- - -**

**"Heal Thyself"**

**Chapter One  
**

It was a week after Jake O'Conner had died, and Dean couldn't remember a day that'd gone by when he hadn't had a splitting headache, not to mention, his arm was still broken and in a cast.

They'd been driving for awhile, when Sam suggested that they get something to eat. Dean, already beginning to feel the signs of another headache coming on, nodded his approval. Sam found a rest stop in the next restaurant they spotted.

"Dean," Sam began, on the tail-end of shutting the driver-side door. Dean could already feel another one of _those_ talks coming on.

So he slammed his own door and threatened, "Don't go there, Sammy."

"I was just going to ask if you're feeling all right," Sam retorted, "You look like you're getting another headache." Dean had had to take a couple of Ibuprofen the night before, it'd gotten so bad.

He realized his brow was furrowed, to the point where he was most likely going to have indentation marks minutes after he'd finally quit, and forced himself to smooth out his forehead. "I'm fine. Stop worrying about me so much." He tried to nonchalantly head into the diner.

Sam caught up with him and bumped arms to get his attention. "I'm just concerned, Dean."

Yeah, he knew it. But he didn't want to talk about it. Not ever again.

"I know, Sam, but if you don't shut up, I'm gonna have to shoot you," Dean retorted, yanking the restaurant door open.

Sam's eyes narrowed, but he shrugged and went ahead into the diner. Dean followed, letting the door swing shut behind him. They found some seats, in a corner of the restuarant that was less populated, and the waitress came by in a few minutes to interrupt their uncomfortable silence.

"Are you ready to order?" she asked, cheerfully, and Dean's headache got worse before he realized she probably wasn't in as good a mood as she let on.

Just in the same way that Sam forced a polite smile and asked her to get them some menus, she was probably hiding behind a smile and a peppy voice. Dean rubbed his temple and stared off at the canister of sugars.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," the waitress said, just that small touch of strain, giving away her embarrassment. "I'll be right back with them." Then she hurried away, and Sam's smile faded.

"Dean?" he asked, but it took a moment or two for the question to register.

"Huh? What?" he asked, eyes falling on Sam.

"Your headache is getting worse," Sam stated, flatly, and Dean rolled his eyes out of annoyance.

"Of course it's getting worse. I mean, now we have to wait until what's-her-face gets back with the menus, and _then_ we have to actually _order_ something, and _then_ we have to wait until she comes back to _take_ our orders..." he trailed off, realizing he'd chosen an asinine way of avoiding Sam's endless stream of concern. That waitress couldn't help it if she was having a bad day.

Sam's brow went up, briefly, but all he replied with was a very sarcastic, "_Okay_."

Before the waitress arrived, a mother and her young daughter came into the back where they sat, and took a table somewhere behind Dean and to the right of him. His headache got worse, and he nearly put his head down on the table when a wave of nausea accompanied it like some sort of harbinger of doom.

Sam was all too quick to notice his head drop, anyway, and wondered, "Dean, you okay?" in a tense whisper.

"Yeah," Dean grunted, but his head was throbbing, and he could tell, without even looking, that something was really, really wrong with that little girl in the other booth. She was scared and a little bit sad, but mostly just really, really tired.

Dean swallowed and turned his head to peer at her, surreptitiously. She was sitting next to her mother, close enough to lean her head against the woman's arm. About seven or eight years old, with medium-length brown hair, she had a pale face, with dark circles ringing her big, dark-brown eyes.

"Dean, why are you staring at--?" Sam began, nervously, but just then, the child's nose began to drip then pour blood down her upper lip and chin. It dribbled onto the front of her pink t-shirt, and she put up her hand to her nose, noticing it.

Her mother looked toward her, brown eyes widening, and she ordered with the calmness of experience, "Here, sweety, let me see." Then she reached for the napkin bin and yanked out a whole wad of them.

Sam and Dean got to their feet almost at the same time, and Sam questioned, "Do you need us to call an ambulance?"

The woman sent him a grateful, worried look and replied, "No... I don't think--" She'd been holding the napkins to her daughter's nose until then, so she felt when the girl went completely limp and started to slump down in the leather booth seat.

Dean stepped forward and caught the girl before she slipped to the floor. "Sam, call the ambulance," he ordered, and lifted the girl into his arms, carefully, because of his cast, before he settled onto the floor with her in his lap. Her nose was still bleeding, so he kept her upright, not wanting her to choke on her own blood.

He motioned for her mother to bring the napkins, and the woman quickly scooted out of the booth and knelt beside them, and attempted to again staunch the flow of blood. Dean could hear Sam giving the paramedics directions behind him, but he tuned it out to ask, "What's wrong with her?"

"Chronic nose-bleeds," the mother said, weariness and fear in her shaking voice. "I was taking her to a specialist... that's why we're travelling. Oh, God, it just won't stop..." she finished, and Dean realized she'd pretty much reached her breaking point.

He took the soaked napkins from her trembling hand, and started to hold it to the girl's nose himself, when something odd happened. As his fingers touched her face through the wet paper, the pain that had been slicing through his head simply ceased. His hand felt warm, and then hot, and then that heat seemed to seep out of him...

Feeling drained, but knowing something had happened, Dean curiously dropped his hand from the girl's face. As the napkins came away, Dean's eyes widened.

The bleeding had stopped.

"Dean?" Sam questioned, then crouched beside him a moment later, "The ambulance is on its way... Has the bleeding stopped?" he realized, and looked toward the lady, who was staring at her daughter in awe.

"I-It j-just--" she began, but cut herself off. "That's never happened before!" Her eyes were on Dean. "You... you did something, didn't you?"

Dean swallowed, and began shaking his head. _'No,'_ his mind denied, _'No way.'_ "I think she's going to be fine," he said, inanely, and re-adjusted the girl so that her mother could take her. He grabbed hold of Sam as he got to his feet, unsteadily, "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Sam's eyes were wide as he watched his brother, but he complied, getting to his feet and following him toward the exit. Outside, he asked, "What happened in there?" gesturing back toward the building with an out-flung arm.

Dean shrugged and ducked into the Impala. "You're pale," Sam stated, once he was sitting in the driver's seat.

"So?" Dean shot back, "You would be too if you had some kid's life in your hands."

"I _have_," Sam answered, as he pulled the car out of the restuarant's parking lot. "And I wasn't nearly so freaked out _after_ they were okay, as you seem to be."

"I'm not freaked out," Dean denied.

"You just said you were, and now you're going to take it back?" came Sam's incredulous reply to that assertion.

"Oh, come on, Sam!" Dean growled, "Would you just drop it? I'm freaked out, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? That girl could've died, and no demon-hunting skills could have saved her! And then, she just... _didn't_." He couldn't get the image of Jake out of his mind, for some reason, sitting on his couch, smiling a sad, accepting smile.

Dean wondered if Jake had known all along--what he was going to do.

Sam stared at him, Dean could feel the gaze burning a hole in his cheek. "It wouldn't have been your fault if she had died." The soft reply startled him into glancing Sam's way. He was saying what Dean wouldn't let him say anymore. '_It's not your fault. He did it because he cared about you.'_

Now he saw that his kid brother was looking just as pale and wan as he felt. "I know," he mumbled, then turned away to stare out his window, unseeingly.


End file.
